Homeless
by Gelana
Summary: When Anna goes to the Harrogate RSPCA to adopt a homeless cat, she finds more than she bargained for.
1. Chapter 1

**This story is incredibly fluffy, but deals with mature themes. Trigger warnings for entire story include living as a sexual assault survivor and a combat veteran, references to alcoholism/drug addiction, PTSD, self-destructive and self-harming behaviors, mild domestic violence, and rape discussion. A concerted effort is made to honestly portray the strength in survivorship, and focus not on the source of the trauma, but the healing and growth process. I promise, my goal is to be as swest and mushy and funny as possible in this real life context.**

* * *

"Where did you meet him?" Gwen continued to badger Anna about her plans for the afternoon, which she had been doing on and off since she arrived that morning with takeaway coffee. Ginger eyebrows raised high enough to etch expectant lines into Gwen's forehead. She flipped her hair over her shoulder.

Anna tried to bite back a smile. "It's the most ridiculous thing, really."

"More ridiculous than rescuing a twat-faced, six-toed, grown cat named Humperdinck when you were planning on getting a kitten?"

"You leave my little polydactyl man alone. It's not his fault some fourteen-year-old tumblr-blogger named him, or that he always looks cross."

"Oy. We're on Tumblr!"

"You're on Tumblr. I watch from afar."

"You have a blog url. If you have a blog url, regardless of whether you just lurk, you're on Tumblr. And how do you figure Tumblr? Princess Bride reference?"

"His brother's name is Bandersnatch."

Gwen cocked her head. "As in all mimsy were the borogroves?"

"As in Humperdinck Bandersnatch," Anna waited expectantly. As is on cue, Gwen loosed a belly laugh.

"That's even better than Betadine Cumberbun," she wheezed, catching her breath. "Which was my previous favorite. And you are avoiding the question. Where did you meet him?"

"Benedict Cumberbatch?"

Gwen groaned and threw a cushion at Anna. "The mysterious man who invited you to tea today."

"I nearly nicked his mother's cat."

"Wait, what?"

* * *

She was ready.

It had been a year since her gran died, she had moved out of her flat and sorted and distributed the combination of her things and all that was left of her family history. Once it was determined from her gran's will that the house was left to Anna alone, her mother stopped coming 'round, though not before pitching a fit over some of the more valuable heirlooms, and coming by with the bastard she'd married and taking the flatscreen while Anna was in London one day. (She'd had the locks changed after that.) Anna tried to not let it bother her. Most of the things didn't feel like hers to begin with, so Anna did her best to appease her mother, even though that was an impossible task under the best of circumstances. Anna had the things that were important to her, photos and a blanket that her gran had crocheted with her when she was wee, an antique pitcher and washbasin, her gran's favorite stirring spoon and favorite handkerchiefs. The woman had never gone anywhere without hankies tucked up her sleeve.

Even though Anna had practically grown up there and had been living in the house since well before the woman passed, it stopped feeling like a home without her gran in it. She suspected it never would again. She couldn't remember the last time she lived in a place that felt like home to her.

Anna hadn't ever truly liked it in London. Her flat there was tiny and cramped, and her paycheck, though considerable, had trickled away like water. There was never any end of things to do, places to see, and restaurants at which to dine, but the city left her drained and exhausted. Back in Yorkshire, in Ripon, she lived far more comfortably on less money. She had taken a cut in pay for her reduced responsibilities, and she was still able to cover her expenses and put money away besides. Mary had been very understanding, in an entirely "Mary" sort of way. When Anna had first spoken to Mary of her gran's deteriorating condition, the so-called Office Ice-Queen sent her off with a three-in-one copier/fax/printer and a pale-blue, satin-edged blanket from Harvey Nichols for her gran. After losing her sister and Matthew, Mary had grown sensitive to others' grief. Anna emailed and faxed in her designs for Mary and the clients' approvals. She had been telecommuting ever since. The whole time she was with her gran, Mary had come to her if they needed to meet in person, with the excuse that she earned brownie points with her father, the Earl of Grantham, for dining and staying the night with the family at Downton Abbey. Lately Anna had been taking the commuter train from Knaresborough rail station into London a few days a week. It made for long days, but she didn't mind. Anna would never forget Mary's kindness and liked working for her. She was grateful to be able to avoid the bustle of the big city as much as possible. She had learned that of herself; she was a country girl, through and through.

Still, it got lonely. She'd been ready for a cat for a while. Her gran's asthma had kept her from getting one sooner. And before that she wasn't ready. Not since the cat she'd had from childhood had died.

She had gone to the earliest appointment she could get at Harrogate RSPCA on that particular Saturday. It hadn't taken much for her to be convinced of the benefits of an adult cat. One caught her attention straightaway.

"That one, there, that looks like a footman in tails," she said brightly.

"He's a wonderful chap, him. Come round here, he'll let you hold him." The young woman volunteering for the cat-ward helped open the wire-fronted metal kennel and true to her words, he walked over to Anna and let her scoop him into her arms. She cooed at him a bit, and he nuzzled her chin.

"Oh, he's so very dear!"

Through the cat-ward window, she noticed a tall, middle-aged man with a cane and a cat carrier walk up. He shifted from foot to foot for a moment, then tapped gently on the window.

The centre volunteer nodded and held up her hand to let him know to wait a moment. "I'm sorry, Ma'am, but the rule is the cat needs be in the kennel before we open the door. I'll just put him back for a moment and help this bloke."

Once the cat was secure and the door opened, the man looked awkwardly from one woman to the other. "Excuse me, I'm terribly sorry but my mother just adopted that cat. She had an appointment at nine. I helped her fill out the necessary paperwork and we paid the fee. The woman who helped us said it would be no problem hold the cat for us while we bought the necessary supplies."

The volunteer began to stutter. "Are you sure? I didn't see any paperwork and there was no tag on his cage. They're supposed to tag cats that aren't available."

"There looks to be a bit of paperwork just there," he said softly, obviously trying to be polite. He pointed to the base of the cages and sure enough there were forms and a yellow tag that had slipped nearly completely under the kennels. He looked at Anna and grimaced apologetically.

The volunteer frowned. "Was she an older woman, the one who helped you? Did she have purple hair?"

"Older than you, perhaps," he said. "But yes."

"Janet," the girl said, with wide eyes. "She ran home on a family emergency; she must have literally dropped everything. I didn't realize."

"I'm sorry, Miss," he said, turning to Anna, looking very uncomfortable. He wasn't handsome exactly, more distinguished-looking. Something about him put her at ease. His face, weathered and rough, was carved with a latticework of laugh-lines. He dressed simply but neatly in a worn leather bomber jacket over a pressed, button-down shirt. His jeans looked to be softened from years of wear, but not ragged. He ran his hand through his hair and a thin lock fell across his forehead. "If it were only me ... But I can't go out there without this cat. She has been looking forward to it, getting a black and white tuxedo cat. She watches that period show, Fountain Abbey, and wanted this one because she says he looks like a wee butler. She already has a little bed for him set up at home."

He was about as dear as the cat. Anna smiled and waived him off. "Please, Mister?"

"Bates, John Bates."

"Mr. Bates, it was a mistake. While I'll be a bit sad to say goodbye to this little gentleman, I could never snatch your mother's new cat out from under her."

He sighed audibly and let out a relieved laugh. "Thank you for understanding."

"It sounds as though he has found a happy home. And it's very good of you to look after your mother."

"She's put up with a great deal over the years, it's the least I can do for her," he said looking uncomfortable again. The cat stretched a paw towards her from between the bars of his kennel. "I am sorry. He does seem to fancy you."

"Please don't apologize, Mr. Bates. Either way he'll get a good home. That's what matters. I'm sure he'll take to your mother just as well," she said, as graciously as she could. He obviously felt badly at having to intervene and Anna didn't wish to add to his guilt by acting disappointed.

"He fancies everybody," the young woman blurted. "Purrs constantly. Him and his brother, both."

"See? He has a brother for adoption as well, sweet as him. I'll be set."

The volunteer looked visibly relieved and quickly pointed out the tuxedo cat's solid-grey sibling in a lower level kennel. "Let me just take care of this, and I'll help you, Ma'am."

She smiled up at John Bates, from her crouch. "There we are then, both of us all sorted. Your mother's a lucky woman to have such a sweet son advocating on her behalf."

He cleared his throat. "You are far too kind," he said.

She turned her attention to the somewhat surly looking grey cat. The laminated information placard on his kennel insisted that despite his expression, Humperdinck (she rolled her eyes) was a friendly companion who loved to snuggle. He wasn't the prettiest cat in the ward by any means, but something about him tugged at her heartstrings. He too reached for her through the bars of the kennel, and she was instantly and particularly fond of his extra toes.

"See? Now they'll both of them have happy endings," she said, smiling. She looked up, but the man, Mr. Bates, had gone. She was oddly disappointed. Once she was done with her paperwork and assuring the centre volunteers that Humperdinck (oh Lord, his name was Humperdinck) would never be declawed, she lugged the unwieldy wooden carrier she brought with her out to her car. Her grandfather made it decades ago for a long-dead miniature poodle, who she remembered, blind and barking, from her earliest childhood. Of course there was no sign of Mr. Bates, but she did look around the car park anyway. She was strangely sad that she probably wouldn't see him again. She was never in Harrogate.

Humperdinck yelled his outrage the entirety of the drive home. Once in her gran's living room, he approached Anna straight from the carrier and rubbed against her and rolled about for pets, even offering his belly. She was a bit suspicious of this, as her last cat had done the same, but would then bite and kick like a rabbit if you touched his belly. Not this boy. Humperdinck looked grouchy and broody, but acted a lovelorn fool. She had fallen for him over the course of a few hours. In a week she was so taken with the cat, she was sure it was fate that scooped his liveried brother out of her arms. She felt a pang of something else though, when she thought of the other cat, Bandersnatch, and found that she lingered on the memory of broad shoulders in a bomber jacket and kind eyes.

And then, just over a month later she visited Ripon's oldest pet supply store, rather logically and obviously named "The Pet Shop." They'd moved her brand of wet food to the highest shelf. Some days it was irritating being only five foot tall. By her estimation, she would be able to reach it if she stood on the second shelf. She found a handhold and was plotting her ascent when a familiar voice startled her.

"Might I help? Oh, it's you."

She was met with kind eyes and a grin that was easy and genuine. She felt her own smile warm her. "Mr. Bates, was it? Hello."

From behind him bustled a stout older woman with a square, apple cheeked face. "Don't you dare! You'll break your neck! Please let my Johnny help."

"You'll pardon the intrusion, but my mother noticed you preparing to scale Everest here and..."

"I sent him to your rescue, love," interjected his mother with a smile. "Which tin is it? And John dear, you didn't tell me you knew each other. Please, introduce me to your friend."

"The green label, four of those if you don't mind. And three of the blue. Ta. And I don't know that I introduced myself to your son properly at the shelter, but I'm Anna Smith. I'm afraid I'm the one who almost made away with Bandersnatch, before your son here very politely but adamantly intervened."

"You're why I'm calling him Snatch! Nearly snatching him away from us! Well, I'm pleased to meet you and even more pleased at your willingness to hand him over."

"You're enjoying him, I take it?" Anna asked.

"Oh he is a perfect gentleman, my wee butler. He sits with me and follows me around, keeps me company when John is at work during the day. You'll have to pop over for tea, love. I suppose in a way we snatched him from you and I'd like to thank you for being so understanding and gracious. John, you get the bag of dry food. I'm going over to look at the cat toys. Why don't you get the young lady's number? We'll see you soon, love."

With that Mrs. Bates walked rather quickly down the aisle.

"Your mother is quite the character," Anna said, peering up at the woman's rather embarrassed looking son.

"I'm sorry. She is nothing if not forward. You are in no way obliged to give me your number ... Not that we aren't grateful to you," he said, having turned a rather rich shade of crimson.

"So you are enjoying him too, then?" She smiled at his obvious discomfort, offering a safe change of subject.

"I haven't much to do in the equation, beyond provide the ride to the Pet Shop for her to buy food and toys. The two of them have taken to one another like tea and toast. She wasn't exaggerating, he follows her everywhere. She sings to him when she thinks I'm not listening."

"Oh, that's so lovely to hear!"

"I haven't seen her this happy in years. They play fetch with little crumpled receipts - we joke that he's part dog. He does often seem to be looking around and she's been wondering if it is for his brother. Did you end up adopting him?"

"I did," Anna replied with a smile.

"Was he also named from Jabberwocky?"

"No, his name is Humperdinck. It's a joke. Humperdinck Bandersnatch. They do it for the actor in Sherlock Holmes."

"Martin Freeman?"

"No the other one."

"Benedict Cumbersome?"

"No, it's Cumberbatch, see that's the j..."

"Isn't that what I said? Cabbagepatch?"

She started to protest until she realized that he had her.

He winked and grinned. "Please, Miss Smith. I'm old but I'm not that out of touch. You were telling me of Humperdinck?"

"I've shortened it to Dink," she said, feeling her ears burn with embarrassment. "Dink does the same thing. He looks around and lets out this particular meow — it's rather plaintive — and he doesn't seem to want anything in particular when he does it."

"At the risk of sounding as forward as my mother, perhaps you _should_ join us for tea and bring Dink. We could have a feline family reunion of sorts. If that isn't too ridiculous an offer to receive from a strange man and his 76 year old mother. I'll admit that you've been on my mind; I felt rather guilty taking him like that."

"Well, lay that concern to rest. It's funny, but I almost feel as though it was fate. I'm over the moon for Dink. I can't imagine owning any other cat. He's perfect, in his awkward, disgruntled-looking way. That isn't to say I wouldn't mind seeing Snatch again, or your mother."

"Why don't I give you my number?" he suggested. "If you decide you'd rather not spend an afternoon with a complete stranger and his mother, you are under no obligation to call."

Mr. Bates had an endearing way about himself, she decided. He pulled out his phone. "Only I don't call myself, so I don't know my number. Let me just..."

"Give it here," she said, and plucked it from his hands. She entered her info into his contacts and returned it with a grin. "I shouldn't like to send you back to your mother empty-handed."

* * *

"Wait, so you're going to the house of a man you just met, and taking Mr. Dinklage over here with you? You're going to have tea with him and his mother, with your cat, at his house for your first date?"

"I don't think it's a date exactly, more a playdate for the cats. It's just tea for an hour or so. And yes, his mother will be there, which is why I couldn't see the harm. We've been texting and he said that she gets a bit lonely for visitors, especially since she has lived in London for most of her adult life and doesn't know a soul up here other than him. Besides, I know just how hard it is being a caregiver for your family members. We have at least that much in common."

"You know an awful lot about this strange man and his mother, whose cat is related to yours. If you ask me, you fancy him."

"Gwen! We've only just met. He's not exactly my type."

"Anna you don't date. You can't have a type if you don't go out with any type."

"You can have a type and not date," Anna protested unconvincingly.

"Whatever. I still say you like him."

"I do like him, I've just not known him long enough to know if I fancy him or not. Besides, he's a bit older. I'm probably not even on his radar."

"Please. You're on his radar."

"It doesn't matter. It's just for a lark. We think the cats are lonely for each other. And if I'm honest, I miss my gran. His mother reminds me of her in some ways."

"Well then, you had best load up the cat and don't wear anything black. Cat hair."

* * *

Anna liked him. Or at least she liked his sense of humour. She also liked that he hadn't texted her a photo of his penis after she'd given him her number in the Pet Shop. Beyond reaching out to her the first time, to thank her again for "so graciously" handing over Snatch, he responded to her texts, but hadn't initiated any conversations. Even still, they got to texting quite a bit. The talked about little things, like the weather, and cat food (his mother insisted on dry food only, and she fed a combination of wet and dry), favourite movies and books (they both like historical documentaries, though for different reasons), and silly things the cats did throughout the day. He told her about his love of cooking, and she admitted to being limited to pasta and basic omelettes and stir fry, and that she usually just got takeaway since her grandmother passed. Which led to a texted out discussion of sympathy and hospice care and heart failure. She commiserated with him over taking his mother on doctor visits, over watching the people you love age and whither. When he finally invited her, he said it was his mother who insisted that Anna come to call and bring the cat.

She didn't read too much into the invitation, or at least she didn't think she should. But in a quiet shadowed place in the back of her mind, she hoped that he was looking forward to seeing her, for she was oddly looking forward to seeing him. She had plenty of acquaintances, but few real friends, and she felt it keenly that she should like to be counted amongst his. She had grown to expect and enjoy their gentle back and forth throughout the day. It made her smile when she saw a text was from him. She liked the warm distraction of it, the gentle way he doted on his mother and sent pictures of her with the cat. Anna's current favorite was one of Mrs. Bates asleep in her recliner with Snatch draped languidly across her lap.

It impressed her that he worked his day around his mother's mealtimes and doctor visits. Apparently he and the owner of the company were fairly close and the man was very understanding about this sort of thing. She hadn't asked him outright what he did, but from the way he talked it sounded as though he oversaw a small shop of workmen. Maybe fabrication. He had moved his mother up from her multi level flat in London when she swapped her medication and went wonky and fell because of it. She had only been bruised and shaken, but he wouldn't hear of her living alone after that. Between early stages of renal failure and diabetes, and three sets of stairs, he worried.

Anna always asked on his mother and he always asked on Dink. Anna was all too happy to report on the fat grey cat and how completely he had made himself at home. He sat with her on the sofa, curled beside her in bed, and waited diligently until she was finished showering to go lap up the water from the shower pan. He preferred to bask in the morning sun on the front windowsill and then sprawled on his back in a rectangle of light from the kitchen window in the afternoon sun. And his resting bitch face was magnificently brooding.

* * *

Tea turned out to be a surprising joy. Mr. Bates greeted her at the door to his bungalow looking freshly shaven and (possibly) nervous. Anna smiled broadly at him and passed a bouquet of peach-coloured roses to Mrs. Bates, who welcomed her in as though she were a long lost relative. The cats were delighted, greeting one another with obvious familiarity, sniffing and grooming the other, carousing around. The three of them laughed resoundingly while the cats made a marvelous show of stalking, tumbling and batting at each other. Mr. Bates had prepared a selection of sweet and savory tartlets for the lot of them to share. His mother proudly made sure that Anna knew they were his creation and not just picked up from the pastry shop down the road.

"It isn't as if I slaved away for hours," he protested. "It's all from frozen filo dough."

"Yes, love, but I never would have thought to put cardamom with the pear and goat cheese."

"She's right," Anna chimed in. "I don't even know where to go to buy frozen fill dough. The leek and sausage is lovely, but the apple and prosciutto is my favorite. You have a fine sense of what flavours to pair."

"Oh Johnny, love," Mrs. Bates patted him arm. "Once we're finished, you'll have to put together a plate of the leftovers for Miss Smith."

Anna stayed much longer than she planned. Well after their meal, she and Mr. Bates ended up having another quiet cuppa at the kitchen table, talking about everything and nothing when his mother and both of the cats had fallen far too sweetly asleep together to disturb. And then he pulled a coin from his pocket that was too big to be a coin, set it down on the table between them, and tapped it with his finger.

"What's that?" She asked.

"Ten years of sobriety," he said in a low voice. "I thought you should know. You seem to think so much of me, for taking care of my mother, but in truth, I'm a washed-up, recovering alcoholic."

She didn't know what to say. So she stayed silent. She touched the chip, then reached out and rested her hand over his larger one and looked at him in what she hoped was encouragement. He sagged, his hand slid from under hers, and he scrubbed it over his face.

He told her how his tour of duty in Kuwait — during the Gulf War — abruptly ended when his leg was broken in an accident with an armored vehicle, how relieved his mother was when he came home, how short-lived that relief was when he turned to drink. He told her of an alcohol-fueled, failed marriage, and later on an arrest, with a lenient judge and years of probation and community service.

"You've said that I'm a good man for looking after my mother," he murmured in the low light of the kitchen, "but from my end of things I'll never make up for the pain I caused her. So you see, that's the other side of the story. I'm just another alcoholic, trying to atone for his sins and clean up old messes. I didn't want you to think I am something I'm not."

"I only know what I see," she said, flushed with the intimacy of his admission. "And I see a man who is human and has made mistakes and has likely been dragged through hardships beyond himself, but still tries to do the honorable thing, despite it all."

She fell into silence. She almost felt as though she hadn't earned the right to know these things about him. Not yet. They were too big for words.

"I appreciate your friendship, Anna," he said, looking almost ashamed of himself. "Very much. I shouldn't like for you to hear about my past from anyone else."

"We all have our demons, Mr. Bates. But I thank you for telling me. You didn't have to."

He looked at her then with an unreadable expression. "But I did," he whispered. "You needed to know."

Anna reached for his hand again and this time he laced his fingers through hers. She ran her thumb over his knuckles. She was sat close to him. Close enough to smell him, she realized, to catch the scent of skin, soap, and aftershave. She wanted to kiss him. She wanted him to kiss her. Somehow each of those was a different thing and each one frightened her a bit, though in different ways. She pulled her gaze from the subtle curve of his mouth, and let it fall on the knot of their fingers.

She had her own stories, her own honesties she wasn't quite ready to share yet. Instead she found herself holding a large, gentle hand and sitting quietly, comfortably in a warm kitchen, sipping cooled tea.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/n: Should have had this Beta'd but couldn't wait.**

He hadn't kissed her that night, nor had she kissed him. She liked him — fancied him, even — and more than suspected he fancied her.

Still, they hadn't kissed that first evening and they hadn't kissed the Saturday following when he and his mother brought Snatch round to her gran's house. Nor the afternoon he came by with a jar of strawberry preserves that Mrs. Bates had made (along with apologies that it was from the summer previous when the local berries produced a bumper crop) and stayed for a cuppa and a walk about the rainy property in a borrowed pair of her grandfather's boots. That time she thought he might, there was a moment when she felt his look like a pulse, but he frowned and began rattling on about how beautifully constructed the old barn was. He was talkative when he was nervous. At least she thought he seemed nervous.

She didn't know what to do with any of it. It had been too long since she'd even half-fancied someone. And it wasn't as if the few false starts she'd made in the last five... Had it been seven years since it happened?

She would need to tell him. She couldn't leave him to guess. He would assume he had done something. That much she knew. He had to understand, she had to make him understand that it was just unavoidable but resolutely not him. And it was not something she wanted to talk about any more than was strictly necessary. Nor did it make her fragile or wounded or weak, (even though some days she felt all of those things). She wasn't in need of saving. It just was. And sometimes it made itself known at inopportune times. She hadn't told anyone except for her gran, though she knew at the very least that Mary had suspected something. Mary had noticed how nervous Anna had become while they were working on designing the cabinetry for Tony Gillingham's vacation home. She had gone so far as to ask Anna about it. Anna couldn't even remember what excuse she had rattled off, only that it sounded hollow and strained. She was less jumpy once she'd heard the news of Mr. Gillingham's personal assistant's sudden passing. She suspected Mary noticed that too, but thankfully said nothing. She felt a touch guilty for being as relieved as she was at the bastard's death.

It was such an odd discussion to have to have. How does one even begin. There was no seven year coin for her to pull from her pocket.

So she ignored all of it but the warm feeling she got with Mr. Bates' texts and the contentment she felt when visiting with his mother.

Anna had taken to the woman, and soon they were thick as thieves. If she finished with her designs early in the day, she more often than not sought out Mrs. Bates. It started one afternoon when Anna popped by unannounced with a book she'd enjoyed and some shortbread biscuits from the nearby bakery. They got on swimmingly.

Over the course of a handful of visits Anna learned that Margaret Bates was not terribly infirm. She had been a young girl during the Second World War and had weathered it all in a small village in Ireland and liked to tell stories of her experiences. She had mild cataracts, but was too afraid of the surgery to correct them. She suffered more than her share of ear infections and had trouble with her sense of balance. The time Anna stopped by with a catnip plant and a few audiobooks procured at the thrift store, Mrs. Bates admitted to a stumble or two while still living in London. She hadn't told her son, as she'd not been hurt. "And don't you go telling him about it, either! It's bad enough that I can't see well enough to drive, and I've gone wobbly on the stair. He has no idea I fell beyond the proper fall, the one that made him insist on bringing me up here."

"Do you feel all right pottering about here on your own?"

"Oh yes, there's only the one step up from the living room to the hallway and kitchen. It was the stairs that did me in at the London flat. "

"So long as you don't give me reason to worry and you feel safe, mum's the word." Anna gave her hand a squeeze.

"I whinge about being here sometimes, about the fuss he makes over me, but I don't mind. Not truly. He's had a patch or two of trouble along the way, but he's a good boy, grown into a fine man. It's easy enough to put up with his henning about. He takes good care of me and if I'm honest I'd gotten lonely living on my own. Growing old is a rather ridiculous state of affairs if you ask me," Mrs. Bates grumbled.

"Isn't that the truth," Anna said with a sigh.

Mrs. Bates laughed. "What would you know of it? Are you even this side of thirty?"

Anna hated admitting that she nursed her grandmother to the other side. No one ever knew how to respond, it was depressing and sucked the air out of the room. What could she do but answer?

"I lived with my gran," she said finally. "While she was dying. Before that."

"Well that's a wretched business," Mrs. Bates stated.

"I was glad to do it, but it was wretched," Anna said, nodding. She frowned. "I don't like to think on it too much. Changing diapers, helping her bathe, folding and unfolding wheelchairs. She was a proud woman. It was terrible seeing her like that."

"But it's what happens, isn't it," Mrs. Bates said kindly. "And it's what you do, and everything you do eventually becomes normal, if you do it long enough. It's a struggle having that be your norm. It takes a while to rejoin the living once it's all said and done. But I don't have to tell you that, or how lucky your gran was to have you."

Anna liked that she didn't see pity in the woman's eyes. She never wanted special consideration, certainly not for tending her own grandmother. "I was lucky to be able to help her."

"John's father was years going, with the cancer. Bloody cigarettes. You'd think it'd be the lungs, but no, it got to his bladder of all things. Poor man and those terrible catheters."

"It must have been... I can't imagine..."

"That is the long and short of it. He smoked from the time he was a wee lad. I never saw him without a fag in his hand. But then we didn't know how bad it was and by the time we did ... well he never could quit. I nearly killed John when he started."

"Does he still? Smoke?"

"Oh no, he left off years ago, well before his father died." She sighed. "And he quit good and proper. That boy never does a thing halfway."

* * *

John Bates first unsolicited text to her came through just after midday on a Thursday in March.

" _It's a bit dreary, do you fancy a cuppa?"_

" _I'm home, working. I've missed a deadline, but I'd not mind a bit of distraction. Fancy coming 'round my gran's? I don't feel like battening the hatches and cat-proofing my work space."_

" _Fab. See you in a bit."_

 _"I'll put the kettle on_."

He arrived sleek and freshly shorn thirty odd minutes later with a pot of daffodils in the crook of one arm and a plain brown pastry box tucked under the other.

"What's all this?" she said, not bothering to hide her delight. She took the daffodils from him and breathed in their subtle fragrance.

"I've noticed you have a sweet tooth, and these are worth trying."

"The daffodils? I've heard they are rather bitter."

"No, I mean..."

She made a face at him and he rolled his eyes when he realized she had him on.

"What's the occasion?" she asked after setting the pot atop a ceramic saucer in the middle of the kitchen countertop.

"You."

"I'm the occasion?"

"I wanted to thank you for the time you've been spending with my mother," he said. He spoke with disarming sincerity. "Why didn't you tell me you had been visiting her? She only just mentioned how often you pop by during the week."

"She's a dear woman, your mother." She picked up the tea tray and beckoned him with a head-bob to follow her to the living room. Dink did his best to weave in and out of her legs while she walked and she had to stop speaking to focus on keeping her balance. When the tray was successfully deposited on the coffee table, she scooped the grumpy-faced grey cat into her lap and ruffled his fur. "I didn't mean to be keep it from you," she continued as Mr. Bates settled himself next to her on the sofa. "It wasn't a secret. Maybe I liked having her to myself for those moments, if that makes any sense."

"It means a great deal to her."

"It means a great deal to me."

She sipped her tea. Blinked at him, willing him to speak. What she didn't say was that she didn't want to put pressure on him. She didn't want him to feel obliged to thank her because she was kind to his mother. She tried to ignore the vibrant yellow of the daffodils glaring from the countertop.

"Regardless, thank you," he said after reaching for his own mug and pouring a bit of milk in it. Dink made his way off of Anna's lap and rubbed against Mr. Bates' elbow. He smiled and scratched under the grey cat's chin. "Hello, little man."

Anna cooed at the contents of the pastry box. Two beautiful treats that Mr. Bates explained were called apple slippers, with all the flavor of apple pie but with a light, flakey pastry shell dusted with confectioner's sugar. She ate hers in three large bites, realizing only then that she hadn't eaten since dinner the night before.

"Is it some sort of runway show?" he asked, after swallowing the last of his apple slipper and wiping his fingers on a napkin. He nodded in the direction of her drafting table.

Decoding his words took a moment longer than it should have. Her blank look prompted him to expound upon his original statement.

"Your sophisticated London fashion designs? The deadline you missed?"

It took a moment until meaning clicked into place. "You think I design clothing," she stated and laughed. "Oh no, no, Mr. Bates. I design high-end, custom cabinetry: kitchens, walk-in closets, that sort of thing."

He looked at her incredulously. "You don't happen to work for the Earl of Grantham's eldest daughter do you?"

"Mary Crawley? I do... But how...?"

It was his turn to chuckle.

"Has my mother — in all this time — not bragged about her son running a cabinetry shop for the Earl?"

"You run the Grantham Board Room?"

"Only according to my mother. No, I oversee the high-end line; Mr. Carson runs the place. We finished our job early, and since your designs aren't finished just yet, I gave my workers a half-day."

"Of all the things, how's that for a small world. I don't know if I should apologize or say you're welcome," she said shrugging her shoulders sheepishly. "I almost never miss a deadline, but the client kept waffling on the final decisions for the wood, stain, types of cabinet doors, and then threw out my first design entirely. By the time they gave me approval to do the final drafts, it was already too late. You will have to apologize to your crew for me."

"I doubt they are terribly put out about taking a half-day. I'm curious, how have we never spoken or emailed?" he asked. "I've only ever dealt with a Ms. Dawson. I just assumed that she was the designer."

"Oh, yes, Gwen. She renders the approved designs into the computer," Anna explained. "All of the high-end line are designed by hand, which is my job. I tend to work more with Lady Mary and the clients directly, while Gwen plays liaison between design and fabrication. I'm a bit hopeless with technology, but Gwen's brilliant at it. She always has the latest gadgets and phones and apps, her finger is on the tech pulse. It has all run much more smoothly since she was hired. And she is a good friend. She comes up here from time to time to share the office gossip and keep me in the loop."

The cup of tea turned into an afternoon together. He sat and chatted with her while she worked. He was rather helpful; he pointed out a few flaws in her design, ones that would have caused him and the installation team more than one headache. She liked his suggestions and took advantage of his drafting skills to sketch out his ideas into the plans. They worked efficiently together and were able finish in just a few hours. She took some high resolution photographs and emailed them directly to Mary.

"You saved me from an all nighter," she said, touching his arm, feeling his warmth through the sleeve. She'd been doing that as of late – almost without her own volition – touching him in subtle, innocuous ways. She would clasp his forearm, his shoulder, nudge him with her foot or knee, find herself grasping his hand. "Thanks ever so, it was a lovely afternoon."

"The changes will make life much easier for my installation specialists. Thank you for considering them and for not minding being pestered by this old man."

"You don't really imagine that's how I feel, do you?" The thought of it bothered her.

"Surely you have better things to do than have a cuppa with me," he said, glancing her way, sporting a self-deprecating smile. "I worry sometimes that my texts and I are a bother."

She couldn't hide her frown.

"You and your texts are never a bother. There is nothing I'd have rather done today," she said in her adamant and soft soprano. "Is it such a strange notion that I enjoy spending time with you, Mr. Bates?"

"Not just with my mother?" he asked.

She glanced at him and rather viscerally felt how he was looking at her. The only thing about it that made her uncomfortable was how much she liked it. And even that wasn't terribly troubling.

"Can't I be fond of both of you?" she asked. She tried and failed to stop looking at his lips.

"Of course," he said softly. He always spoke softly, at least with her and his mother. "As long as I fit somewhere."

Emotion welled up in her with surprising abruptness. She blinked and looked away. "You do. Surely you know that," she said quietly enough that it was almost lost in the patter of rain against the windows. She glanced sidelong at him.

They stood, everything yet unspoken charging the air between them, and he blushed. "It's late. I should get back to my mother. I need to fix her dinner."

"She loves that you tend to the cooking, that you moved her here," she said affectionately, breathing again, turning her attention to returning pens and pencils to their respective jars. "She's bursting with pride. You know that, don't you?"

He rolled his eyes, "Does she tell you that? She has the forgiveness of a saint."

"Maybe so, but mothers are good at forgiving their sons," she said with a smile before turning her attention to shuffling and tidying papers. She was due for a trip to the office and would deliver the originals herself the next day. She sealed them in the waiting cardboard tube. It was early enough that Gwen would be able to start entering the dimensions and measurements into the program before she clocked out for the day.

"Well then, that's all sorted, we had best get you on your way," she said, awkwardly aware of how much she didn't want to see him off. "I would send you back with something, but all I have is three-day-old take-away and a half-eaten jar of her preserves."

That made him laugh. "Thank you, but perhaps not."

He had such kindness in his eyes. She liked how his smile always reached them.

"Go on then. Be a good son," she whispered, holding his warm gaze a moment or two too long, before running her hand up and down his arm.

"Join us?" he asked. "It's not a glamorous offer, but you'd be very welcome. And I guarantee it will be better than your three-day-old take-away. Bring Dink if you want. I'll drive. It'll be no trouble at all to nip you back here after dinner."

"I shouldn't like to intrude." She said the words, and while she meant the sentiment all she could hear was the falseness of them. She would love nothing more than to be privy to their supper time rituals, to see their routine, listen to their banter and arguments.

"You wouldn't be. You know she loves to see you," he insisted. He shifted his feet and held her gaze even as he lowered his voice. "I'd like it if you'd join us. I'm not quite ready to say goodnight. Not yet."

His whisper made her wet. He heard her breath catch; she could see it when the lines at the corners of his eyes deepened and his mouth tipped into a shy smile.

She stepped into him before she could think better of it, lifted onto the balls of her feet. The tilt of her chin and her palm flat on his chest to steady herself were all it took. With a maddening slowness he pulled her flush against him, pressed his cheek to hers. She felt the rush of his breath, the brush of his thumb over her collar bones almost more intimately than the tentative way his mouth found hers. He kissed her with a fragility that all but broke her heart.

He rested his head on her shoulder when they parted to catch their breath. She wound her arms tightly about him and just held on.

They were stood long enough together that she apologized aloud. "I'm sorry," she said in the dim afternoon light of her living-room-turned-office. She stepped backwards, wide-eyed at the feel of him still rippling up her spine.

"Whatever for?"

"You have dinner to make," she offered, hotly aware of her ruddy cheeks and ears. "And I don't seem to be helping."

"You are if you're coming with me."

"So long as I haven't scandalized you," she said and pressed her lips together, shocked at how responsive her body was to him.

"You'll have to try a bit harder than that," he rasped warmly. "Sterner stuff and all."

She turned her face away from him again and grinned. "I'll leave the cat, if it's all the same to you. One less thing to worry on."


	3. Chapter 3

Margaret Bates was nothing if not an astute woman. She must have heard the car or seen its lights when they pulled up.

"Welcome home," she called innocently from the open doorway, greeting them as though Anna accompanied her son all the time.

She closed the door and ushered them in. Anna followed Mr. Bates to the kitchen and they deposited the grocery bags on the counter. Perching herself happily at the kitchen table, was suspiciously casual when she asked them about their day. Anna liked bustling about within the confines of the kitchen. She was able to guess where most things belonged. When she couldn't, a brief glance at Mrs. Bates yielded a knowing head tilt towards the item's rightful home. After they unloaded groceries, Mr. Bates set Anna to work washing and chopping cauliflower and carrots, while he peeled and quartered the onions and whisked together some spices in a frying pan. By the time Anna finished her task, aromatic mustard seeds sizzled and popped under Mr. Bates' watchful gaze, and she was full to bursting with the familial domesticity of it all. Even though it terrified her a little, she couldn't help but recognize a space where she fit, where she wanted to fit.

"Here, help me lay the table," Mrs. Bates said after Anna washed her hands. "Johnny, love, what are you up to?"

"We've that leftover roast chicken, Mum," he answered. "I thought we could have a bit of chicken and vegetable curry."

"This boy," Margaret said, handed a grinning Anna three plates and a small handful of silverware. "Feeds me all this fancy food."

"It's left-overs served with brown rice. Not even proper jasmine."

"Yes but you doctor it up, and make it taste like it's from a posh restaurant."

"It's just spices."

"Hush and let an old woman brag about her boy."

He sighed patiently and focused his attention on cooking.

Mrs. Bates presided over the dinner table with smug enthusiasm. She reported on the news on the telly, the comings and going of Snatch and the unrelenting rain. Anna squirmed under the older woman's cheshire cat gaze only long enough to remember that she was famished and then tucked in with gusto.

"Johnny, you've barely touched your food," Margaret stated. "Are you feeling well?" She raised her eyebrows and glanced between the two of them. "And then there's you who look as though you haven't seen a meal in a week."

Anna nearly choked on the mouthful she was chewing. She looked at Mrs. Bates with wide eyes and swallowed.

"I'm sorry," she blurted, embarrassed. "I was caught up in my project and forgot to eat today. Your son saved me with those apple slippers. I didn't realize how hungry I was until I started eating." Anna tried not to be obvious about how much more she looked toward Mr. Bates.

"Oh don't fret Anna. But you can't do that. You need to eat, you're all skin and bones. John, you'll send her home with something."

"Of course, Mum. And that reminds me. Why didn't you tell me that Anna designed cabinets for Lady Mary?"

"Oh I knew you'd piece it together sooner or later," she responded, the picture of composed innocence. "You're a bright boy."

She turned her attention back to Anna. "You'll bring Dink next time, Anna, love. I worry about him all alone. You'll have to go straight back after dinner. John, you're taking her of course? Good. I've been thinking that Dink should stay here on days you commute into London, so he doesn't have to be lonely. When do you go next?"

Less than a minute later Anna was promising to bring Dink first thing the following morning. Once again, when they finished Mrs. Bates sent her son to the kitchen to put together a bag of leftover vegetables and rice, so she wouldn't have to think about lunch. "John's curry is always better the second day," his mother said, with a nod.

Mrs. Bates let Anna help clear the table, but drew the line at the dishes, physically stepping in between Anna and the sink. "There's no need. I like the hot water for my arthritis, and John will put them away when he gets back."

They left her settled in her chair, watching an old episode of Murdoch Mysteries.

"Make him drive safely, Anna," she called over her shoulder.

"Oy! Mum! I do drive safely."

"Of course you do, Johnny-Bear."

Anna heard him sigh.

"Good-bye, Mum," he said in a pained voice.

They snickered and hushed each other after the door closed behind them. She took the umbrella from him so that she might take his arm, lean into him. Giddy in their relief, in the absurdity of their shared experience they made their slow escape through the rain, towards the car. She tugged his elbow and squeaked, "Johnny-Bear?"

"Sweet God," he said and groaned. "Please pretend you didn't hear that!"

"She enjoyed herself far too much tonight," Anna said when she had swallowed her laughter. "She looked like the cat who caught the canary."

"She was in rare form."

"It wasn't too terrible a gauntlet, though," she said.

"No?" he asked. "Care to share your worst childhood nickname?"

She shook her head. "Can't say I would."

"I thought not," he said. When he laughed the lines fanning from the corners of his eyes deepened. She'd caught him studying her twice as they walked together under the umbrella, and each time he glanced away shyly.

"I wish you'd just kiss me already, Mr. Bates," she blurted from beneath the umbrella as they reached the car.

"Do you?" he asked, looking rather like a rabbit, frozen in the torchlight. His expression changed when she nodded. She watched, wide-eyed at her own boldness, as he stepped into her, stooped down to her. She was growing to anticipate the bloom of sensation in her chest when they kissed. Her hands found their way into the warm space between his jumper and the lining of his bomber jacket. She liked it when he was close enough to fill her field of vision. She liked exploring the feel of his mouth with hers.

"It was clearly worth it," he whispered against her lips, when they had kissed each other breathless under the shelter of the umbrella. "That gauntlet of my mother's."

She could only grin and nip at his lower lip.

"Come on, before we get soaked through," he whispered. His words were rough in her ear.

She bit back a rather racy comment about being soaked and let him hold the umbrella and bag of food while she got in the car.

She felt forward and happy and only mildly mortified as they buckled themselves into their seats. She wanted to hold him again, feel his warmth seep into her skin.

He reached for her hand and slid the pads of his fingers over her knuckles. "I've wanted to kiss you like that for a long time."

He leaned into her. She hadn't ever wanted a man like this. Not after what happened, not before. Warm longing curled up her thighs into her sex, over the dimples that framed the base of her spine. To her disappointment, he pulled away after only the briefest and tenderest of kisses at the corner of her lips.

"Why didn't you?" she asked, not entirely sure if she was asking about then or now.

He chuckled, "I worried that I'd seem the lecherous old man."

She laughed at that and sat back in her seat. "How old do you think I am Mr. Bates?"

He started the car. "Old enough to make your own decisions. And young enough that I've no business kissing you without an invitation."

She smiled broadly out the passenger window at that, felt it in her breasts and low in her belly.

"I'm thirty-two," she said after a moment and glanced at him. "If that makes you feel any better."

He sighed and chuckled. "It does, actually. I was worried that you were closer to 20, and I was rather disgusted with myself."

"As for the invitation, I'd say it's an open one," she said, still feeling him on her lips.

They drove in silence, he showered her with side glances and half smiles that stilled as quickly as they surfaced.

Mid-roundabout his phone chimed.

"That will be from her," he said taking it from the pocket of his jacket. "What does it say? Did we forget something?" he asked, handing it to Anna and taking the corner. "We haven't left the food have we? No I held it for you, I remember."

"You did. It's on the floor." She read the text silently, loosed a squawk of laughter. "'You, beloved son of mine,'" she said with undisguised mirth. "'Are NOT — under any circumstance — to return back home for several hours.'"

"She didn't," he groaned. "Oh my God, I'm so sorry."

"Well, I'd say she has grand plans for your night, Mr. Bates. Bit of a match-maker, your mum?" Anna chirped.

"That would be a generous understatement as of late. She wasn't, before you came along. I have to say she does have impeccable taste."

His phone chimed again. This time he grabbed for it but she twisted it out of his grasp. "Now, then, Mr. Bates, what would your mother say if she knew you were attempting to read texts whilst driving. In for a penny in for a pound."

She glanced at the screen, pressed her lips together and took a deep breath.

"'I'll remind you that I am not an invalid and thus perfectly capable of putting myself to bed and cooking a breakfast in the morning.'" When Anna finished reading she kept from laughing outright by adding, "Either way, neither one of us will be looking your mother in the eye tomorrow." Then she laughed anyway.

He drove in silence for a few moments looking mortified, before apologies began bubbling from his throat.

"Mr. Bates," she interrupted, not trying hard to reign in her laughter. "Please, I don't take it in any sort of negative way. She's a dear, dear woman."

They pulled onto her gran's street, with its gaggle of nosy neighbors. Well meaning busybodies, the lot of them.

"If you don't mind, turn in the drive and park round the side of the house. And really. She loves you and she's found a friend in me, how could I be offended?"

"Anna, I hope you know I would never presume...I mean at best I was hoping for a snog on the doorstep and a few minutes to ask you on a legitimate date, one not involving my mother." He made a pained noise and scrubbed his hand over his face.

She wanted a great deal more than a kiss and a promise from this man.

"Well, date and snog aside — although both sound delightful — I think you should come in for a nightcap, seeing as you've been temporarily banished from your own home," she said as casually as she could. "Besides, it's too cold and rainy for a proper go here," she continued, with a grin. "And we wouldn't wanted to disappoint your mother."

He groaned but joined in her laughter anyway. Drawing a deep breath, she pushed out into the rain. Her heart beat loudly in her ears. He opened his door, but sat still and watchful.

"Were you coming?" she lilted. The rain was bracingly cold. She had the food, but left the umbrella. She held her coat tightly shut, cocked her head to the side. Her body was singing with desire, all breathless and nerves. She let out a sigh of relief when he stood, shut the car door and followed, sporting a lopsided grin.


	4. Chapter 4

It took two tries to unlock the door. They stomped their feet and shrugged out of coats, boots, and scarves. She wasted no time reaching for him, wrapping her arms around him, sliding her hands up his back again, this time under his jumper.

"You're cold," he hummed and hugged her, rubbing warmth into her torso wherever his hands fell. She felt his lips press to the crown of her head and buried her face in his chest. Tears threatened, he felt so good, so familiar. She might have wept had Dink not sauntered in, meowing a loud and disgruntled greeting. She laughed out loud and took a relieved breath. "He won't stop shouting until I cuddle or feed him. I'll occupy him with a tin of wet. Fancy a cuppa?"

"Not particularly," he said, his eyes twinkling, his cheeks all apple.

"Beggar," she said brightly. "Right. Well, I'm dry and I've a bit of a chill, so why don't you nip into the other room and start a fire while I plug in the kettle?"

"I thought you had central heating."

"I do," she called over her shoulder as she opened the tin of cat food. "But it's useless. The bedroom overheats in a blink." She grimaced when she realized what she'd said. The tea was ready far too soon. No sugar for him. Milk. But only enough to cloud the tea. It meant something to her that she knew how he took his tea. She wasn't sure how to look at him when she walked out of the kitchen. She stood at the threshold carrying two cups on a wooden tray, wondering if she had crossed a line, if he would shy away from her or grow awkward.

She had no reason to worry, of course. He was laid out like a pasha, with his feet confidently up on the ottoman.

"Your fire, Miss Smith," he said, with a theatrical flick of his hand.

She set the tray down near his feet on the ottoman, and picked up the mugs.

"It would seem that my mother isn't the only one with grand plans for tonight," he said, smirking.

She cringed.

"Am I terribly forward?" she asked.

"Perhaps a bit, but not terribly," he said, looking regal, all legs and smirking presence.

She huffed a relieved breath and held out his mug, offering it to him as if in apology.

"I know you said you didn't want any but I'd feel silly drinking mine alone," she said.

He took the tea from her and tipped his head in thanks. She settled next to him. She blew on hers, looked at the ripples her breath made. Then in a moment of what she hoped would seem appropriate familiarity she shifted herself so that she faced him and tucked her toes under his thigh.

He jumped, but only a little and to his credit he recovered quickly, even seemed to be bolstered by it. He dropped a hand to loosely circle her ankle.

"I'll be back in time for late tea tomorrow," she said. "It IS a Friday, if you wanted to go on that date."

"Won't you be tired?"

"Yes, but we don't have to stay out late."

"With you I want to stay out late."

She pressed the kiss she wanted to give him to the rim of her mug, chose not to joke about an evening of Netflix and chill. They lapsed into a shy silence, which stretched between them and grew comfortable. Each nursed their own tea, and pretended they weren't looking at the other from beneath their eyelashes. He'd taken to tracing a repetitive pattern along her ankle and calf. When Dink ate his fill, he perched next to Mr. Bates, and groomed himself with fanaticism and vigor. When his hind leg stretched up in the air they both stopped making eyes at each other and burst into laughter. This of course caused the cat to leap from the back of the sofa to the cat tree, disgusted with them. She set her tea down so she wouldn't spill.

"He's a sensitive soul," she said when she'd caught her breath. "Get his knickers in a twist and he'll glare for ages, all evil-looking, silent resentment. He doesn't mean for it to be evil-looking, it's just his face."

That made him choke and splutter. Which started her up again. He coughed a moment and set down his own cup.

"I like to hear you laugh," she said after her own giggling died down.

"I like that you make me laugh," he responded, pulling one of her stockinged feet into his lap. He set to kneading it.

She sighed into his touch, made an illicit noise when he worked a tense spot near her heel. Her eyes drifted shut and she lay there, relaxed and nearly purring when something occurred to her. John Bates was big. He wasn't just a tall man, but solid and strong as well. While he was a man with a past, she was at ease with him and had been from the start. It had taken years to be alone with a man and only feel mildly trapped and on the edge of anxiousness. She'd not hesitated with him, never felt any of that. Any anxiety Anna nursed lay within wondering how her cracks — the strange little faults and fissures that Green tore open — would manifest. Mr. Bates would witness her broken bits sooner or later. She doubted that he'd turn tail and run away, but she didn't want to be an object of his pity.

"That feels heavenly," she said, refocusing on him, on stretching her toes wide, welcoming the soothing pressure of his fingers, the solid warmth of his legs.

"Penny for your thoughts?" he asked in a humming whisper. She knew, with a cold sinking in her gut that he had felt her tense and was probably thinking it was him. He was his mother's son, sure enough; he didn't miss a tick.

"Where'd you go just then?" he asked in that quiet way he had.

She found she couldn't answer him; anything but the truth would be a lie. She let her eyes focus on the fire, it was dying, the smaller log ready to collapse. His hands stilled.

"I wish you'd just out with it," he whispered when her words wouldn't come.

"Out with it?"

"Whatever it is you're hiding."

The cold in her gut slid up her spine to her cheeks. She wasn't ready. The world strobed when she blinked away her panic. She pulled her feet from his hands, tucked knees under chin. She had to tell him, but she wasn't ready.

"I can't," she whispered.

"You don't deny it, then," he said quietly. There was no question in his words, instead he said it as though he'd expected her to lie.

"I don't deny it and I don't deny you have a right to ask. But I just can't. Not yet."

"Is there someone?"

"What? No, there hasn't been anyone in years, even when there was there wasn't."

"If you're feeling strange because of my past I completely understand," he said, his burr tinged with a gentle stoicism. "I would never want to pull you into something you weren't comfortable with."

"No," she insisted. "Well, I mean, we do need to talk more about that, an a great deal of other things, but that isn't it."

"Because ... Because I love you, Anna. I know it isn't right for me to say it, not so early on, but ..."

"You don't know me, Mr. Bates," she interrupted. His words frightened her. She heard things in his tone she wasn't ready to admit about her own feelings for him, her own desires for them, not yet.

He paused and when he continued, his voice shook with naked vulnerability. "I want to know you, if you'll let me."

"It'd change your opinion of me," she said. Holding her breathing even was possible, she was sure of it, but she needed to find something to look at besides the concern that lined his face and hardened his jaw.

"Nothing could change my opinion of you," he said softly.

Her chest felt tight. She wanted to believe him. She pushed off of the loveseat and knelt before the flames. When she slid open the screen – a funny little chain-mail curtain, the burning log collapsed in on itself. Her body was turned just far enough away that he was out of her line of sight. She took a steadying breath and another, and fed the fire more kindling – twigs and broken branches collected and dried. When she walked she was never without a small handful for fire-starting. She teased up a flame from the tinder pieces and then added some thicker kindling, small logs quartered, ones she had delivered by the cord and split herself outside the back door on the old stump. The wood blackened and caught, flames curled around its edges, warming her face.

"It's all buried and over," she finally stated, her mouth dry. "It doesn't ... I ... I don't ..." She tripped over her words and scowled, dug her thumbnail into a piece of bark. "I've worked my way through it, you see, and I'm not... I don't want you to think ... I don't need any sort saving or fixing... I'm not some sort of victim."

She stopped and found her breath, silently counted out her inhalations. She followed him without watching. It was a habit she had, drawing pictures with her ears. His breathing was different, was shallower, fast, more uneven. He stood and shuffled over to the leather recliner by the fire. It squeaked when he used it to ease down near her. She heard his socks whisper over the carpet, heard his sniffle, felt the creak of the old wooden floor beneath him as he settled close.

"Anna," he whispered. She wasn't startled by the tentative way his fingertips brushed against her shoulder, but she flinched anyway.

"I don't want you to be different with me," she insisted. She glanced his way, not really looking at him.

"Please tell me," he said in a rough whisper.

"It is what it is and I live with it how I do and it's alright. I'm alright." She reached for his hand where it rested on her shoulder. She liked the feel of his fingers twined through hers.

"It's not alright," he said after a long beat.

She pulled his arm across her chest and scooted back into him, smiled when he looped his other arm around her waist and held onto her. He kissed her shoulder and rested his head on it.

"Maybe not, but I'm alright," she said, insistent. "I've had a long time to sort myself out and untangle things."

"When did it happen?" he asked.

"Seven years ago," she said and sighed. "In London, after an event with that famous Kiwi opera singer, Kiri Te-Something-Or-Other, to celebrate some Grantham modernization anniversary. It was late. Mary had just left with a client for drinks. His personal assistant stayed behind and tried to talk me into a shag. He didn't like that I said no. Or that I fought back."

That was it. Even though it wasn't, even though it did nothing to describe the way it sat with her like a stone that hunched her shoulders and bowed her back when no one else was watching.

"Anna how could you think I would pity you?" he asked in a choked whisper. "You aren't pitiful, you're strong. You fought and you kept on."

She remembered running the shower so hot that night when she finally made it back to her flat, that her skin was angry and red for hours. It was still tender and pink the next day when the bruises started staining her. That was the beginning of the sunset and sunrise of colors on her skin. Purples, browns, sallow yellows. Green's marks lingered after they were gone. The welts she raised herself lingered longer. Hers were fine-lined scratches beading red – they were to remind her that she was still alive, that she was in control of her own pain. They began when she learned of the lorry accident and the girl's arrest, ended after she stopped going to bars to shag strangers. She was doing better, doing well, finding a boldness and sensuality she'd nearly forgotten about. Now here she was. She'd spoken it aloud and remained whole. Nothing had shattered away from her in the retelling. She felt a bit ill, but no more than that.

"It was ages ago," she said, uncomfortable in his grief for her.

"That doesn't make it less real," he said in a tight voice.

"No, but I've learned how to live with it," she said. Needing to see his eyes, she turned to him. His face was ruddy and wet. She touched his cheek. "You sweet, sweet man," she whispered, holding his face and his gaze. "Please don't cry. Please."

She kissed him solemnly, earnestly, needing to feel him and reassure him. "I'm here, I'm fine. I'm the same woman I was ten minutes ago."

He sat with his bad leg straight out. She felt a pang of guilt and turning to the fire, added a last, solid log. "The fire's perked up, and the couch is far comfier than the floor," she said, standing and offering her hand. She leaned hard against his weight as a counterbalance while he stood up, then buried herself in his arms for a little while. Dink stood watch from his cat tree, still glaring.

Anna stepped away from Mr. Bates finally, and arranged a bit of a nest on the loveseat with the pillows, gracelessly flopped amongst them and opened her arms.

"Come on, then," she said. "Put up your feet and weigh me down a bit."

"I'm too heavy."

"No you aren't," she reasoned. "We just have to arrange it so that your heaviest bits are on the couch instead of me."

She smiled and tugged his arm, pulled him to sit next to her, and sprawl into her. He rested his head against her chest, pulled her legs over his. It was blissful to lay folded together before the fire. For once she didn't care about the past. The promise of this man weighting her to the two-seater in her grandmother's living room was too lovely to be ignored.

"I need you to swear," he said after a time. "If I ever make you uncomfortable or do something..."

"I like the way you look at me, Mr. Bates," she said, speaking over him, silencing him with the force of her interruption. "It's why I didn't want to see pity in your eyes. I like it when you touch me, when you kiss me, and I don't want you feeling like you can't. What happened, it's there. Sometimes that will make me react or overreact. But it doesn't mean I need to be treated with kid gloves."

"I still want you to promise me that you'll tell me if I..."

She rolled her eyes and smiled, pleased at the way they fit around one another. "I'll tell you if something makes me uncomfortable, don't worry."

"Good," he said. "Thank you."

They lay together in the low light, creating a cocoon of silken touches, punctuated by soft sighs.

"Is he locked up now?" Mr. Bates asked quietly.

It was an honest question, she should have expected it, but her stomach sank.

"No one knows about what he did to me. I never told anyone besides my gran, never filed charges." She sounded reedy, feeling panic rise up again in her. She had almost made it through the telling, and could hold her voice even for a time more. She could. She took another breath and soldiered on. "You say I was strong, but I wasn't. I should have gone to hospital, reported him. But I couldn't bear it. It was all I could do to change into my spare workout clothes and get to my flat. It took a while to manage that. I'm not as brave as you think."

His open palm smoothed up and down her arm, over and over again. She kissed the top of his head in gratitude at the tenderness.

"He's dead," she continued when she was able. "He was killed four months after. I only know from what was on the news and from what his employer told Lady Mary. It was all caught on CCTV. The footage apparently showed a woman pushing him in front of an oncoming lorry. The DI found and interviewed her, and sure enough he had raped her. They ran into one another on the street, he said something foul, and she snapped." She took a ragged breath before continuing. "I wonder sometimes, if he hurt her before or after me. Had I gone to the police, would he have been off the streets?"

"Anna," he interjected. "You can't go there. You just can't."

"But in a way it's my fault this poor girl is locked away, isn't it."

"Anna, you are not responsible for that bastard's twisted choices. Nor are you responsible for the choices of the woman who caused his death."

"Still, when all was said and done I took the easy way out."

He hugged her tightly for a few deep breaths and then shifted, lifted his head to look at her, rested his chin on her breastbone.

"That isn't what it sounds like to me. Not at all. I don't think anything about what you did to survive after it happened was an easy way out," he said, his voice low and rasping. "We're all flawed, Anna, all of us scarred by the lives we've lived. Those sorts of choices shouldn't be second guessed. Or the ones that come after. Please don't take that guilt on. It will eat at you. It sounds like you did everything you could, everything that was right and safe for your to do in the moment. So maybe you got a little lost along the way. We all do. What's important is that you survived and went on, without letting go of your sense of compassion. That is bravery and strength, and it's worth my admiration."

The warmth in his eyes was undisguised. Anna frowned and blinked back tears.

as something within her gave way. She brushed his hair out of his eyes

"You're very dear to me, Mr. Bates," she admitted quietly. "Please don't doubt it. I hold my feelings tight to my chest, is all."

"Nothing wrong with that. Besides, you seem to be doing a shade better than me."

"How so?"

"If you hadn't kissed me, I would probably have been working up my nerve for the next year and a half. I'm hopeless with this sort of thing."

"I'm nearly as bad," she intoned tracing the edge of stubble high on his cheek. "We are a pair of messes half cleaned up, aren't we?"

He grinned broadly. "Half is better than not at all."

He kissed her cheek, her temples, the skin below her ear. They were the barest of contacts, like apple blossoms falling against her skin. Each one drew stuttering breaths of anticipation from her lips. When he found the corner of her mouth she made a noise and turned her head, blindly seeking him out. It was fumbling and needful. And perfect. He filled her senses, woke her up in ways she hadn't been for years.

He surfaced abruptly, panting, all gentlemanly worry. "Are you sure I'm not too heavy?"

"You feel good," she reassured, and pulled him closer. His weight pressed her into the sofa cushions, but instead of pricking her into a panic, it slowed and deepened her breathing. A smile grew at his concern, at the warmth of his hand. It was satisfyingly wide and warm where it spanned her ribs and then gripped her hip.

She nuzzled into his neck, nipped his earlobe, and pulled his mouth to hers. She could feel his erection against the outside of her thigh, hummed her delight into their kiss.

And then he was pushing away again, sitting up and taking a deep, gasping breath. "I should probably be considering playing like I'm a responsible adult instead of a hormone addled teenager," he said, his restrained tone was laced through with his self-deprecating humour. "Friday morning is approaching fast."

"I bet you say that to all the girls," she said with a smirk.

They laughed hard enough that Dink huffed and left the room entirely.

"What if I wanted you to stay?" she asked in a different tone altogether, when their laughter calmed.

"I'd do damn near anything you asked," he said. "But if you did, I'd beg a condition."

"Mmhmm?"

"That tonight, we sleep. If I've gathered anything from what you said, Anna, it's that the last thing you want is me treating you like you're made of glass. And I know myself well enough to know tonight I'd do just that."

She kissed him gently and sighed. "You are a lovely man, Mr. Bates. There aren't many like you in this day and age. If you ask me, though, I'd say you're just concerned I might be using you for your body," she dead-panned.

His laughter was full and rich. "That's it, you've found me out."

She couldn't see tiring of the way he looked at her or the tenderness and warmth of his smile. But that was putting the cart in front of the horse, as her gran used to say. For now she was contented to giddiness at the prospect of someone to hold on to and whisper with on a rainy night.

"You can call me John, you know," his tone matched his gaze.

"I know," she said. It was easy enough to stand up and straddle his lap. His thighs were wide and strong beneath her. It was delectably fun flustering him. He cleared his throat when she trailed her thumb along his ear. It pleased her that she teased out a shiver from him. "I like calling you Mr. Bates. I don't know why. It sounds broad and dignified in my mouth."

She searched his eyes and kissed his forehead, tucked him beneath her chin. "I'm not ready to go to sleep, " she whispered into his hair. "Not just yet. Not when the fire's so lovely and you feel so nice."

He made a low, rough sound and wound his arms around her. It felt right to hold him, his head large in her hands, his mouth pressing rasping kisses to her collarbone, then throat. It wasn't an entirely chaste night, but for the most part, they behaved themselves.

 **A/n: A giant thank you to AnnaMBates for creating my wonderful cover art! Thank you to everyone who has been reviewing. I'm terrible at responding to reviews but that doesn't mean I don't appreciate them.**


	5. Chapter 5

Intermission.

He itched. Scratching didn't help. Licking didn't help. He arched his back and stretched. It helped the crick in his back but not the itch.

She had gone, the safe woman, his human – she says his mummy. She left with the tall man that taps with his stick, who keeps the old safe woman and Brother at the other inside place. He liked living with his own human, she knew all his scritchiest places, and let him drink the water from the floor of the rain box, and fed him the mushy meat. He let her sleep on the bed with him. But, he liked visiting Brother and the old safe woman, too. She was comfortable to sit on and spoke low to them, sang them little songs and tucked crackling bags of treats in the folds of her chair. Brother liked living with her and the tall man.

He didn't like that his human left so early. She hadn't even given him a proper morning cuddle. She'd petted the tall man, cuddled him too, the two groomed each other's mouths for a longtime, every stood for a long time inside the rain box. He wasn't sure why the tall man had stayed the night, sleeping in his bed, or why they both left him so early in the morning. He liked that the tall man was calm and found the spots that wanted scritchings and had made room for him on the nighttime bed, and rubbed his back and his ears, and whispered to him in the dark. He didn't know what all the words meant, but the way the man said it made him purr.

"I've never felt like this, Dink," he said. "Not ever. Please don't let me fuck it up. Us blokes have to stick together. It's you, me, and Snatch. We need to help each other out."

His name wasn't Dink, but they thought so, so he humored them.

Later, the tall man came back alone, with a big brown bag. The birds in the yard proved a distraction, but he needed to stay apprised of the comings and goings of the house, so he tore himself away and jumped up on the counter to inspect the bag's contents. No crunchy food. No mushy meat in a tin. He stood watch while the tall man emptied the bag and put its contents in the humming light box. Then to his surprise, the tall man picked him up and before he knew what was happening he was inside the tiny cage box, being jostled about. He voiced his complaints with vigor.

"Don't worry, mate. I'm just driving you to visit with your brother."

He worried when the car started, but a few turns in recognized the route, and that calmed him. He didn't like car rides. Sometimes they ended at bad places. But this ride would end with games and tumbling, stalking and purring, and the Old Safe Woman rubbing his belly until he fell asleep.


	6. Chapter 6

**A/n: Kisses and loves for all the responses to the cat chapter. It was far out of my comfort zone and I appreciated the feedback. All the love to a certain holy amphibian for beta flails. We are straying slightly into M territory. We'll say T+. Don't get too excited. T/w for memory of physical and emotional abuse.**

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John Bates spent the day distracted and fumbling. He reached the point of needing to take a step away from the multitude of saws, drill presses, and nail guns. He opted to hammer dovetail joints with a rubber mallet and still hit his thumb twice. The first time was because he was considering her freckles and how they spilled down her shoulders onto her breasts. He hated his own, but Anna's freckles were perfect - pinpricks of honey, scattered like tiny petals.

The second time, he'd been enjoying the sensory memory of her nipple, taut in the center of his palm.

It throbbed a bit, his thumb, but he didn't mind. It served as a welcome reminder of why he was distracted, of the ways she'd shared herself with him. He lingered over thoughts of luminous skin, her searing mouth, wet hair clinging to the curve of her breasts.

Closing time came none too soon. Most evenings, he was the last person out, but for a few nights, he'd left Sarah O'Brien still hunched over her workbench. She'd heard him curse at the drill press earlier (he'd nearly lost a fingertip) and remarked snidely to watch his language, that they weren't working in a shipyard.

That time he'd been thinking of the cascade of hot water over their bodies, and the way Anna gripped his bare thigh and held his gaze when she'd dropped to her knees.

He'd never seen a woman look at him like that. He'd never had a woman make him feel like that. Oh Lord, her mouth on him...

"Everything alright, then?" Sarah O'Brien asked, knocking him out of his reverie. She was carving out a custom inlay for Lady Grantham's new armoire. It was undeniably beautiful, with looping, arcing art-nouveau inspired scrollwork.

He shoved his keys into his pocket and nodded. "Bit preoccupied is all," John said, not trusting her concern. He ducked his head at her project. "That's looking very well."

"It should," she said. "For all the hours I've put into it."

"Right, then," he said, expression as neutral as he could hold it. "Have a good weekend. Don't work too late."

"Oh I won't," she said. "Drive safely."

"Will do," he replied automatically, picking up his cane and walking out as quickly as he could. It was hard not to scowl back at the woman. He didn't like her, but she was a genuine talent and Lady Grantham loved her work. So, he was stuck working with her. He treated her with the same professionalism he afforded everyone, even if some days she was tiresome.

He had taken care of quite a few things on his list after leaving Anna off at the train station that morning. All the shopping had been tended on his way back to pick up Dink. He'd tidied and built a ready-to-be-lit fire of twigs, kindling, and newsprint.

It was official, he decided; he was turning into his mother. After learning that Anna had forgotten to eat the day prior and didn't have any proper food in the house, he took it upon himself to stock her fridge. If she didn't know how to cook, couldn't be bothered, or was forgetting to eat, he could help. If nothing else, he was good at feeding people.

With everything he prepared in the morning, all he needed was to go home, shower and get himself put together. Then off to return the cat and set the scene at Anna's house.

Thankfully, his mother was asleep in her chair when he arrived, so he was in and out of the shower before she came knocking. She played the innocent again, giving the cat report and the news report. She moved onto the weather report for the west coast of Scotland — where it was mild and calm apparently — when he finally lost his patience.

"Mum!" he interrupted.

"Yes, love?" she lilted sweetly.

"Mum, could you please let me get dressed? I need to go. I don't want to be stuck in traffic on the drive to Knaresborough."

"Oh that's right, you're collecting Anna from the station."

"Mum! You know I am. I told you when I brought Dink over this morning."

"I know," she said. "I just like to see you all flustered and agog. She's special, that one. Besides, you have plenty of time, her train doesn't arrive until quarter past seven - I checked."

"Mum! Please, go away. I need to change."

His mother grinned at him, reached up and patted his cheek. "You need to shave."

"She likes it," he said, a touch defensively.

"She does, does she?"

"Mum! Go!"

He could hear her laughter even after he shut his bedroom door. Feeling about fifteen years old, he shook his head and sighed. This was a maddening new experience, though not entirely bad. His mother had despised Vera from the start.

He pulled a few shirts from his wardrobe, caught sight of himself slouching in the mirror. Hunching exaggerated his belly, rounded his back. He was starting to look like an old man. His skin was pale, awkwardly delicate looking where the sun didn't touch it. His hair was beginning to grey. The baby face of his teens and twenties had thickened and roughened into wrinkles, old man jowls, and drink-burst capillaries. At least he didn't carry the extra stone-and-half he gained tying one on night after night. When exactly all this aging had happened, he had no idea.

Still, her desire was not a figment of his imagination, nor the way she'd smiled and giggled softly, reaching for him in the low light. Somehow, she saw past all of it, and wanted him anyway. She'd traced drowsy shapes connecting freckle to freckle, and teased trails of gooseflesh along his back and arms. She'd pulled him to her, wrapped herself around him in the darkness. He hadn't stopped her, even when his arm went numb. And, then, when she had rolled over in her sleep, he lay cuddled with her cat, blinking back tears of gratitude. He fell asleep with the length of her back warming his.

John shook his head and stared at the man in the mirror. She more than liked what she saw, if her actions were any indication. He shook his nerves off and studied his wardrobe. It took too long to decide and in the end he just wore a crisp-looking

black teeshirt and a dark green button-down that'll made his eyes look forest green and grey, and his best jeans and dress shoes. The grey peacoat that he found at the Harrogate shop when he was first out jail was distinguished looking. Especially paired with the matching flat cap his mother had given him.

Thankfully, Anna's cat was friendly. He was able to scoop Dink up and get him into the carrier without any problems. His mother made a show of saying she wouldn't be waiting up, that she liked a bit of independence.

He was distracted enough that he almost forgot the bag of plastic votives that were his mother's donation to the cause when he explained his plan that morning. They were stupid, but he couldn't well light a hundred candles and then leave them unattended. At least with fake candles, there would be no risk, and if she decided on a sit down dinner on the way back, he wouldn't be worried about taking too long.

He hated to admit it, but as he scattered the votives his mother was right, they were just the thing.

Traffic was unruly, and he did in fact get caught in it, but the train was delayed because of it. So, he didn't leave her waiting.

Every time he saw Anna, he was surprised by how beautiful she was. It was as if he couldn't hold all of her in his mind's eye. She smiled when she saw him waiting and picked up her pace, which made him grin stupidly. The wordless connection being forged between them felt like it shone in the darkness. He stood where he was and opened his arms to her.

"I'm disgusting from the train," she said, hesitating, her nose wrinkling, her expression apologetic.

"You say this like it will stop me," he said, unable to hide his mirth. He hummed when she stepped into his embrace and held onto him.

"Hello, sweet man," she said, only loud enough for him to hear.

She'd whispered it to him this morning, too, — sleep roughening her voice — as they sighed and stretched awake. It made his throat constrict to hear it again. He slid his knuckles up her back and delighted in the shiver he elicited.

"So what's the plan?" he asked, after basking in her arms for a minute or so.

"I'm knackered and filthy. There's a chippy over there. Let me skip off to the loo and wash my hands, we can share some chips on our way back to the house. Once I'm showered, we can figure out where to go from there?"

"A masterful plan indeed," he murmured. Just being with her made him smile.

She'd eaten half the bag of chips before they were five steps away from the chippy, so he turned around and bought another one. He was glad she liked vinegar on her chips, because it meant he would have someone on his side next time he made fish and chips for his mother, who hated even the smell of the vinegar.

"I was so late," she said after wolfing down a large portion of the second bag of chips. "I worked through my lunch hour. The curry was delicious, but I left it in the staff fridge and someone — very possibly Gwen — ate most of it."

"Please don't tell my mother; she will hold it against Gwen for a long time," he said, in all seriousness. Anna had such a bright and beautiful laugh. It warmed him every time he heard it.

Not surprisingly the drive back to Ripon seemed much quicker. Anna talked most of the time, to his surprise. She told him about their upcoming job, the one she would start designing on Monday. He learned that she had known Mary since the Earl's daughter was a teen. Anna had been twenty, a local girl, finishing her design degree at uni, she had responded to an advertisement to be the peer's tutor. They'd formed a close friendship, one that Mary hadn't forgotten when she took over the custom part of the cabinetry business three years later after she quit Cambridge midway through her first year.

Anna talked nearly the entire drive. It pleased him how much she volunteered without being asked. He spent the drive trying to contain himself, over-eager as he was to see her reaction to the lights.

It was a job well done, for when she keyed them in to her gran's house, she gasped out loud.

"Mr. Bates! What have you gone and done?"

She dropped her brown leather bag and walk around, admiring his handiwork. "It's so pretty! And herbs! Fresh basil is my favorite."

Feeling pleased with himself, John shuffled into the sitting room and braced himself against the mantle to light the fire he'd built that morning. It made him feel rather suave if he was being honest.

"It's so lovely," she called from the kitchen. "You didn't have to go to all this trouble."

"It wasn't any trouble, it was just flipping a few switches."

"A few hundred switches more like," she said, walking into the living room, unlooping her tartan scarf. "How did you keep Dink from knocking the lights all about? Is he up in the bedroom?"

"Oh, he just...," he began, and then realized in a moment of sinking panic that he forgot the cat. Not in the car, Dink would have meowed and complained. _Fuck. Buggery sodding fuck._

"I forgot him, at my place. I loaded him into the carrier, and remembered the candles. And ..."

"And forgot my furry son?" she demanded. Thankfully, she sounded more amused than concerned. "Inside, I hope? I'm texting your mother."

She pulled her phone from her purse. "Oh look, she beat me to it. ' _Did my son forget something_?'" Anna read, giggling. "She sent a picture of Dink in his carrier in the entryway. At least you didn't leave him stranded out in the rain, poor kitten. She says, _'I noticed him straightaway, but was wondering how long it would take that fool boy of mine to remember._ '"

"Not until he delivered me home and my cat didn't greet me," she said aloud as she typed. "Mind if he stays the night?"

Her phone pinged almost immediately.

Anna read Mrs. Bates' response and burst out laughing. "' _My son or your cat_?' she says! Honestly, Mr. Bates, it's about your mother!"

John was so relieved that the cat was alright, he didn't even colour at his mother's words. Anna giggled to herself as she typed another response text, then patted his arm and started towards the stairs. "Alright, you're off the hook for now. Make yourself at home. Feel free to watch the telly or put on music. Give me half an hour or so to clean up - I will try to be quick."

"Take your time," he called after her. When she was out of sight he headed to the kitchen to put together some tea and a cheese board.

The abrupt sound of the shower starting was enough to give him an erection.

He could picture her in the morning glare of the bathroom lights, wearing a only a snug fitting, pale pink camisole and the incredibly soft matching pyjama trousers which sported a hideous mauve and lavender floral pattern. She'd apologized when she put them on, explained they were a joke gift from Gwen, but they were so comfortable they immediately became her favorite pair.

She'd pulled her hair from its loose ponytail after she turned on the hot water. He watched her hold it in a tight fist while she raked a brush though it, her breasts swaying with each stroke. She yawned widely. It wasn't until she started brushing her teeth that she caught him staring at her.

She smiled, looked at him with sleepy eyes. Until her gaze turned ... if he had to describe it, he'd say hungry. He picked up his own borrowed toothbrush and scrubbed his teeth with quick efficiency. He spat and rinsed his mouth and when he looked back over to her, her trousers and knickers were on the floor and she was pulling the camisole over her head.

It'd been so long since he'd seen a woman in the nude, he didn't quite know what to do with himself. After all she had told him the night before, he was conflicted. But she'd stalked up to him with a confidence that made him ache, risen up on her toes and kissed him hard, catching his growing erection between their bodies. He tried to move away, overwhelmed at her nearness, at the desire it strummed up in him, very conscious of his state of undress. She snaked her arms around him and held him to her. Slowly, he settled into the embrace, let his own hands fall where they would, juddered at the feel of her. He'd never known anything as soft as her bare skin. When she finally stepped back from him, he felt like he was surfacing after being underwater, breathing hard. Her breath was ragged too, her skin pricked with gooseflesh.

"You're cold," he said. It was all he could think of to say.

Looking up at him, all wide, blue eyes that look slate grey in the fluorescent light, she swayed back and forth for a few seconds. Then she hooked her fingers in the waistband of his trunks and tugged him towards her.

"Come warm me, then," she whispered.

She had him out of them and helplessly bucking into the palm of her hand before they were even in the shower.

He clung to her like his life depended on it.

Her mouth on him that morning had been incredible, her gaze holding his, wickedly sensual. He grinned stupidly thinking about it. He had thought of her as a beautiful siren, naiad, a sort of modern shower nymph, for she had been a creature of such power. With only the warmth of her mouth and the pressure of her hands, she'd rendered him mewling, inert and gasping, seeing only the darkness and pulsing lights that lined his eyelids. He sagged after his release, twisted his knee a little, almost couldn't stand. She braced him for a moment until he could bear his own weight, then held him, stood swaying with him under the spray of warm water.

He wanted to take her nipple into his mouth and roll his tongue over it, to feel the heat of her body around his fingers, to suss out all her pleasure sounds. She pulled his hands to her body, but turned in his arms him every time he tried to dip his head to her breast. He caressed the steaming skin of her hips, but when his fingers brushed down her stomach, she playfully swatted them away.

"Anna?" he asked when she did, frozen, fearful he'd crossed a line, not trusting her smile.

"Tonight," she whispered. "I want to, but if you touch me now, neither one of us will make it in to work." Kneading her hips was permissible, kissing her face and neck, her shoulders. _Tonight_.

She'd missed the bus to the train station, so he drove her. She almost missed the last morning train.

Rousing from his daydream, cognizant for the first time in minutes that he was in her kitchen, John added a small bowl of dried cherries to the platter of cheese. He cut and plated the Wensleydale, focusing on the pain in his knee to calm the stubborn half-erection that had been plaguing him most of the day. The knee still throbbed a little from twisting it in the shower, had bothered him on and off during the course of the day. Still, alongside the swollen thumb, it was a silent, almost welcome reminder. His blood hadn't risen like this since he was a teenager, and rise it did, like sap in a tree, towards the beckoning golden light of the sun. Shaking his head, he tried to turn his attention back to the tray. It was easy enough to balance it with one hand and use his stick with the other. When the tray was safely set on the coffee table, he nudged the ottoman over so he could sit with his legs up.

Grocery shopping before work had been rushed; he'd made it a sort of game. His favorite shops all featured loads of locally sourced and crafted products. The tray looked pretty, with two tea cups, a pot of tisane — she liked rooibus at night, he knew this because she had given his mother some — and the cheese board. Everything was plated rather artfully, if he did say so himself. Four different cheeses, prosciutto, apple slices, a saucer of small green Spanish olives, some thinly sliced crostini, the wee blue and white bowl of dried cherries, a tiny jar of fig preserves, and a sprig of dill to garnish. He snorted, and felt the pretentious git. But, when it came to food, some things were worth being a snob about.

"Sorry, I hope I didn't take too long," she said from the doorway. He looked over his shoulder, unprepared to see Anna standing there, with sleek, blow-dried hair, and smokey eyes, looking the famous actress or model. She was wearing a loose, dark blue jumper that had slits for her shoulders to peek through, and a pretty silver necklace that suspended a large, pale blue cabochon between her breasts. His eyes followed the lines of her body downwards, drinking in the snugness of her black leggings. They looked soft, velvety, and he very much wanted to feel them. Her feet were bare, and tiny, like her hands. He knew she was beautiful, but he didn't know she could look like this. His gaze met hers once more and he swallowed, mute. She raised her eyebrows, did a little turn.

"Too much, not fancy enough?" she asked. "What did you have in mind for tonight?"

He couldn't find the words to answer her at first. "You..."

"Clean up alright?" She was tilting her head, grinning at him now.

"You look stunning."

"Thank you," she said, looking away, suddenly shy, her smile private. He forgot everything but that smile for a moment. Then she noticed the food and loosed an endearing squawk of delight.

"Oh! You think of everything, Mr. Bates!" Anna exclaimed, swooping on the tray.

She went straight for the Dale End Cheddar and apple slices, and settled on the ottoman, one foot tucked under her bottom, her knee nudging his stocking clad toes.

"I don't know about that," he said. He was pleased that he was only momentarily distracted by the contact. "But I do have a trick or two up my sleeve. I wasn't sure what you would feel like doing, so I wanted to be prepared."

He smiled at the contented noises she made while she ate. Cheeses from Botton Creamery were excellent, and the Dale End Cheddar a simple favorite. So was their Mooreland Tomme. She tried a crostini with soft goat cheese and the dried cherries and hummed her enjoyment as she chewed.

"Prepared?" she asked after swallowing and popping an olive in her mouth.

"Well, neither of us got much sleep last night and it's been a long day," he said. "If you felt like staying in, I wanted to make sure we wouldn't go hungry."

She laughed. "Apparently, you know me and the contents of my refrigerator all too well."

"I hope you don't mind my taking the liberty," he said smiling, knowing full well she didn't. "Now do me a favor and try spooning a bit of the fig and honey chutney onto some of the Tomme. That one," he suggested.

She did and groaned as she chewed. "I've never heard of preserves on cheese. It's fantastic."

"Some Persian friends of mine eat it that way. It's a unique pairing. If you like, I thought that maybe we could cook a simple dinner together. Otherwise, we could drive into town for a bite, get some dessert and watch the Ripon horn-blower."

"Or we could stay here, in the dry and the warm, eating fruit and cheese, and then shag like rabbits." She smirked wickedly.

"Anna," he said and paused, unsure of what he needed to convey. Before he could say a word, she leaned forward. Small hands took and held his large one, fingers traced over a faded scar. She looked at him, her teasing grin gone, replaced by a seriousness, a gravity that made him irrationally joyous.

"I say that," she murmured. "But it wouldn't just be shagging, would it? Not with you."

The upwell of emotion he felt at her admission caught him square in the chest. It expanded in his lungs, burned behind his eyes, threw him off balance. He had to hold himself very still, and even then he couldn't silence it, nor did he want to. There was love in between the lines of her words, in her eyes, in the way she touched him. He drew a shaky breath.

"You've got me every which way, Miss Smith," he said in low rasp, when he was able.

"Have I?"

He cleared his throat. "I'm all swallowed up in you, there's no making heads or tails of anything else."

"That so?" Her voice radiated a quiet power, his shower nymph.

"It is," he replied. "And if I'm honest, I'm nervous as hell."

She looked at him, silently questioning. Her eyes were so large, so expressive. She waited for him to continue.

"It's ... been awhile," he explained before he lost his nerve. "More than awhile. And ... " He gestured vaguely with his open hand. She nipped her smile into a thin line, and watched him flounder for words. Which was oddly reassuring, for he couldn't be doing too badly if she was trying not to smile. He took a deep breath.

"Anna, whatever this is we're doing, it feels ... big. And right. And I ... I don't want to screw it up. I'm notoriously good at screwing things up."

She stood, maneuvered herself so that she sat in his lap, curled to him as though they did it all the time, as though it was the most natural thing in the world to tuck herself into the spaces made available by his seated form. Her hair flowed like water over her shoulder. The smoky eyeshadow made her look ethereal, otherworldly, in a vaguely predatory way. She kissed his temple, the corner of his eye, his cheek.

"You're not screwing things up," she whispered, brushing first her lips over his earlobe, then the tip of her tongue. She touched his jaw, encouraged his mouth towards hers, reassured him with her kisses, her fierce tendernesses. When she leaned against him to catch her breath, it was with a soft humming sigh into his shoulder. The rhythm of her heartbeat made him smile. He liked holding her close enough to feel it. They sat, wound around each other, silent on the love-seat. It tickled him that she seemed to seek out quiet, slow moments, seemed to enjoy just holding him. Vera was never still or quiet, never demonstrative in an affectionate way. He held Anna tighter.

When she finally spoke, it was to voice his thoughts, yet again.

"Do you mind staying in?" she asked. "The horn-blower will be out tomorrow night."

"Night after, even," he agreed.

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 **All credit for forgetting Dink goes to AwesomeGreenTie. Thanks for the brilliant idea, dearheart! And love to the sweet Persian woman in my child, family, and community class for teaching me to eat jam on cheese. It's legit. I think she served strawberry jam on Swiss cheese. It was a potluck in which we were assigned to bring something that we ate while growing up.**


	7. Chapter 7

**A/n: If you are new to the fic go back and read the chapter one disclaimer. Gratitude to everyone who has been gently nudging me about continuing this fic. We are now solidly in M territory. This will also probably be the last chapter for a long time as I want to turn my attention back to WW &B. Who knows though, muses are fickle. Also. I make no money doing this: reviews are deeply appreciated.**

* * *

Anna stood a while later and shrugged away from John's reaching arms. He felt cold without her warmth filling them.

"I'll carry the tea and nibbly bits," she stated, smirking. "Dinner can wait."

He hooked his cane on his arm and gripped the banister for support, after tripping and nearly stumbling headlong in his rush to follow her up the stairs.

They were both giggling like school children by the time they made it to the top, though once at the door to her bedroom he hung back, wide-eyed and timid. Anna set the tray on her dresser and faced him, his naiad returned, her gaze dark, sensual. He earned a grin and an eye-roll for his reticence, before she strode over to him and tugged him into the room by the wrist. Then she was on him, stealing kisses, fumbling him out of his clothes, tugging her own jumper over her head. John helped her with clumsy fingers and shaking sighs, until he was stood, stripped bare. A charged sense of enormity, anticipation and inadequacy held him up, made him hyper-conscious. Electricity arcing between them where her skin touched his. He hissed her name. Swaying up onto her tiptoes, she nipped his shoulder, kissed one corner of his mouth, then the other before pushing him to sit on the edge of the bed.

Her leggings were richly soft - he sought them out when she crawled over him with slow care. Smoothing his palms over her flanks, he squeezed strong calves and gripped her bottom. The feel of her mesmerized and focused him, honed his desire. He ran his finger-pads up over the slope of her back, she made a rough noise and ground against him. Then she stopped short.

"Wait," Anna said in between rushed breaths. He paused, motionless. The next words to tumble from her lips were confusing in his panic.

"I don't want to hurt you," she said. "I'm not, am I? I mean, I know where the scars are, but I don't know what is and isn't sore. Am I too heavy?"

And slowly he understood that he hadn't hurt her. Anna was worried about causing _him_ pain. That concern etched her face, was palpable in the way she touched him. His ears flushed under her scrutiny.

John blinked. The words " _bloody cripple_ " echoed about his brain, alongside Vera's hard stare, her mouth twisted in derision. He could feel the brusque way she'd bustle past and "accidentally" knock into the back or side of his knee, how she'd snicker, low and calculating when she could make the breath hiss from between his teeth. More often than not she lashed out like that when they were in public, making his world throb, white hot. After rendering him a grimacing and gasping spectacle, she'd turn and fret over him, affecting the appearance of a devoted wife. He resented that most of all, despised her for it. She knew he hated to call attention to his injury. The stupid stick was enough of an admission of weakness. Vera fully understood the upper hand she claimed, that a crowd left him powerless, that he couldn't even glare at her without making himself seem cruel and boorish. That woman was all hard edges and calculating spite.

Not Anna. Anna was fearful of causing him the slightest pain. Enfolding her in his arms, John shook off old memories and rubbed his cheek against her shoulder, marveling at her tenderness and blinking away his tears. A small hand lit on the nape of his neck. That was Anna, offering her comfort and strength in the most unconscious of ways, without even realizing she was doing it. She held him as tightly as he held her. After a minute or so, she shifted her hand to cradle his cheek.

"John?"

Leaning into her touch, he smiled at the sound of his given name, at the emotion he heard in the single syllable.

He cleared his throat and laid his hand over hers.

"I'm fine," he said. "It's a long story. One I'll save for later, if you don't mind. And no, you aren't hurting me. You're very different from my ex-wife, is all."

Frowning, she looked at him intently, but didn't pry. He pressed a brief peck to her lips, took her hand and guided it behind her, closer to his knee, not far from her heel, to the scars, the multitude of small keloid-covered entry wounds.

"That's where the shrapnel went in. I was lucky. I had most of the armored lorry I was driving between me and the blast that knocked the other vehicle into us. The muscles and tendons were pretty chewed up, but not the femoral artery or any major nerves. Had that happened - well, I wouldn't be here, most like. They were able to repair a lot of the damage and remove all but one piece of shrapnel. It's stiff and sore, and I can't straighten it properly, but it works. I survived. Two of my patrol weren't so fortunate. I'll take a little pain and a limp. This part's tender and hurts when someone bumps it, but it's not that bad.

"I don't know how closely you looked at the inner side or if you saw the back of my thigh, above the knee, but it's not pretty," he continued. He had to look somewhere besides her eyes to keep speaking. The physical disfigurement and need for the occasional accommodation (things as minor as walking slower, the need stop and get his weight off of it both in public and in private) had disgusted Vera. She hadn't disguised that fact, was more than vocal.

"There's soft tissue damage, scar tissue where some of the muscle and skin got infected and had to be excised. It makes it look disturbing. I needed skin grafts. The scar tissue, the stiffness changes the way I use my hips and leg muscles and exacerbates the limp. Because of that, the cartilage in my knee has degraded, is non-existent in some places. That's what causes me the most pain. It's more internal. I can't properly bear weight on it. As long as you don't accidentally kick me or put all your weight on it I should be fine. My doctor wants me to have a full knee replacement, but that would mean six weeks of recovery time, and for now, it isn't worth it. It won't change the limp. I just can't be bothered."

She made a face at that. An alarm klaxon sounded in the depths of his brain and he knew without doubt that he would be ambushed by her and his mother on the topic sometime in the immediate future. For the time being, she kept her consternation to herself, simply considered him with a slight scowl.

"You'll tell me if I'm even close to hurting you?" she finally asked in earnest.

"I will if you will," he said, raising his eyebrows.

Anna chuckled at that. "Deal," she said.

Surprisingly strong arms curled about his neck. She held him for a long time, not moving from his lap, occasionally easing her hold on him to slide her fingers through his hair, over his throat, his chest. He shivered and sighed deeply more than once, simply accepting the attention, relaxing into her embrace, elated.

Without preamble, she rose up and off of him and with a defiant look, unclasped and shed her bra. It didn't feel right, struck him as off. When she stepped between his knees and back into his arms, she fairly radiated tension, hesitation.

"Anna? Talk to me."

She sighed heavily, rested her chin on his head.

"This is all new," she whispered and leaned into him. "It's not been like this before, not with anyone. I was a mess all day, wanting you, wanting ... _this_. And I hate it because I never know how it'll be, how _I'll_ be, if I'll need us to stop."

"Of course," he said, his voice thick. A tight, helpless feeling settled in his gut. She deserved so much more than to be haunted by a dead man. At the same time John was perversely proud that somehow she found him worth digging up and mucking through her past. He held tightly to her words, heard what she was trying to say - that she'd had other men before, but she'd never made love.

"And I probably won't...," she continued and cringed. "Since it happened it's hard for me to..." She took a steadying breath and finished in a rush. "I usually only come when I'm alone. You shouldn't think ... It feels good, and I can get close, but ... Please, if I don't ... Just know it isn't you."

Holding his breath, conflicting emotions worked out an equilibrium. The trust she placed in him had grown into one of the most sacred things in his life; it was not lost on him how much strength it took to be this vulnerable, this forthright. The knowledge that she still suffered because of that bastard gnawed at him. It also left him ashamed of himself for how readily and clearly he pictured her climaxing at her own hand. He swallowed and returned to the present, feeling base, vulgar. Smoothing his hands up and down her back, then her arms, he tried to clear his mind.

"I'm sorry I'm such a complicated mess," she said, before he could speak.

"Oh god, Anna," he said, his words crumbling in his mouth, his self-loathing leaving a bitter taste at the back of his throat. "Please don't apologize; we're all complicated. This is nothing you have any control over. It doesn't make you a mess. Remember who you're talking to, the biggest of all messes, even half cleaned up. When I say you aren't one, I know what I'm on about."

That earned a short, quiet, near-laugh, and — he was guessing — a smile. He risked a peek and was relieved to see that he was right. With each subsequent breath, more and more tension eased from her muscles, her grip on him loosened.

"What's your middle name?" he asked.

Her peal of laughter was easy, honest. "May."

"You, Anna May Smith, are the loveliest human being I have ever met, just as you are. I'm here, and I'm with you and that alone is more than I ever dreamed. Can we agree that you set the pace, and let each other know what is and isn't working?" He was decidedly out of his depth, but taking heart in the tender set of her eyes, the way even her small smile radiated when she nodded. He was aware, all at once, of bare breasts that rose and fell with her inhalations, of lips that she wet with the tip of her tongue, of how she watched him, took in his reticence, his desire, his worry, his ridiculously eager, burning love. He recognized it in the way her gaze changed. It nearly cleaved him in two, how she looked at him. It was as if she could see into him, could read the history of his life playing out behind his eyes. Maybe it was just a recognition of demons, of wounds not dissimilar from her own. Then she pulled an exasperated face at him.

"Stop thinking and kiss me, Mr. Bates," she said, as if it was the simplest thing in the world.

He wasn't about to argue, it was far better a choice, he decided, to let her push him back, to lay and let her map the contours of him with a hungry mouth. She sussed out fault lines, places that made him heave and quake when she traced over them with her fingertips, her tongue.

John might have been the one to profess his love aloud, but she had been laying a silent, unmistakable sort of claim on him from the the beginning. That thought seared through him. From the beginning. Despite what had happened to her. With every touch she had professed herself, reassuring him in ways words wouldn't. He could think of a dozen small kindnesses she'd visited upon him in the last few weeks alone. He decided in the dark of that morning, with her cat — a sweet and sizable little loaf purring at his chest — that if she never wanted to make love, if she couldn't share that physical part of herself, he'd agree to it gladly. It would be enough just to be in her life, to be as close with her as she'd let him. Even in that she seemed to know his thoughts, and guided his hands to her breasts, her hips, and finally — thank god, because he couldn't bring himself to touch her uninvited — she pulled his fingers down her belly, under the waistband of her leggings and between her thighs. When he felt how wet she was, he growled, and she caught him up with kiss after kiss. Her breasts hung from her body like fruit, ripe and full. God help him all he wanted was to skim his lips over her, to breathe her in, to feel her surrounding him like this, slick and burning. She knew it, too, if her smirk was any indication.

Anna had told him that she wasn't made of glass, but stripped bare she looked like porcelain, and he had to remind himself. It was fresh to him, not to her; she'd done her level best to prove that to him, to reassure. Once her secrets were all told out she seemed at ease. For all his hesitation, she was eager and responsive, even now — especially now — with his finger dipping inside of her, ringed by trembling muscles. There was no dampening or disguising of her enthusiasm. He pulled out to slide a wet knuckle over her folds. Letting out a low moan, she clenched deep beneath his touch and he palmed her under her knickers, proud to be coaxing such stirrings. He needed to stop thinking about what happened. The confidence with which she kissed him helped. So did the way she ran her fingernails down the middle of his torso and slowly rocked against his hand. What he wanted was to stay rooted in the blissful and unfathomable present. A present in which he was making love to this incredible woman. He hadn't fucked it up yet. After all he had ruined and shattered with Vera, he wasn't deserving of a second chance, but one had been given to him, regardless. He fully intended to make the most of it, painting his intentions on her skin, telegraphing his love into her nerve endings, and doing everything in his power to make her feel cherished.

He rolled them, sending her into a squealing burst of giggles. Somehow he managed to find purchase on the carpet, and support himself with his good leg. He took a moment to revel in this turn of fate, in the gentle soul lain bare before him. He covered her in tiny kisses, as though he were drinking little sips of her skin. She whimpered — a soft, high, whining noise — when he flicked his tongue over one tightly swollen, pale-pink nipple and then the other. Shying away, he watched her, smiled when she squirmed in frustration, dipping his head back to her breasts, drawing her pleasure out with his lips, with gentle, testing teeth, and fingertips. He teased juddering moans and ragged breath from her throat to distract himself from his own need. The catch and scrape of his stubble over her cheek felt obscene. So did the softness of her hand as she wrapped it around his erection, pulling him, stroking. He let his head loll forward for a moment and simply basked in sensation. Soon enough, though, he caught her wrist. It took a few moments to gather his breath and his wits, and start speaking.

"You already had your way with me, Miss Smith," he said. "And you have me at a disadvantage." He tugged gently, but pointedly at the fabric of her leggings. "If I remember correctly, I was promised my turn tonight." He heard her breath catch and felt it in his groin. "A turn that I am not finished taking."

"Is that so?" she asked with a tart lilt, her grin wide. "Do you have something particular in mind?"

A chuckle rumbled through him.

"I do."

He kissed the tiny mole on the apple of her cheek, the corner of her jaw. Then he searched out her lips until he was catching her sighs and exclamations in his mouth, until they were both trembling and panting. Abruptly he stood and moved away from her. The speed with which she had both leggings and knickers shoved down to her ankles made him chuckle. He pulled them the rest of the way off with an authoritative tug, and the look she gave him in response was hungry. He kissed her, near drunk at the feel of her bared to him, pressed to him. Drawing her knees up to hold his ribcage, she dug heels into his lower back, wouldn't let go when he tried to move down her body, to lower himself to his good knee.

"No," she whispered, tugging him back to her lips, urgent in her desire. "Please, first I need _you_. I want to feel _you_." She reached out and scrabbled a bit in the bedsheets, coming up with a condom. He hadn't the faintest idea when she tossed it there, but he'd been distracted. She tore it open with her teeth, in a way that throbbed through him and handed it over, flashing a sheepish grin.

"I'm rubbish at getting them on," she admitted.

John's hands shook and he nearly lost his erection, but somehow rolled the latex all the way down. Then he was holding himself just off of her. For a moment there was nothing in his world beyond wide, stormy-grey eyes looking up at him. It surprised him how nonchalantly she reached between them and took him in her hand again, as though she did it every day, cupping him against her vulva. She rolled her hips, eyes not leaving his. He was convinced he'd go mad; the heat of her sex was searing comfort and silent, unspoken promises. She guided him — just the tip of him — inside of her. Sealing her mouth to his, they kissed until he lost himself. The way her tongue circled his drew a thrust from his hips. She gasped. On fire from the feel of her rippling around him, he panicked and went deer-still. The one directive he'd tasked himself with was to avoid hurting her. It terrified him almost to weeping that he might have already failed.

Her breath was sharp and loud. Clawed fingers pulled him closer. "Don't stop! Go on, sweet man," she said in as intimate a tone as he'd ever heard. "You're lovely."

She tilted her pelvis, took him deeper, and he was eclipsed by the feel of her, yielding and wet, gripping him. When she began lifting her hips to meet his, he (finally, cautiously) moved within her. Thought stopped.

The sounds that slid from her throat were a siren's song, beckoning him, punctuating his movements. The near-silent noises she made, the keening sighs, the whispers, they sank into his skin, tore away at the last of his resolve. Growing around him, coiling, clasping him to her, reckless in her desire, she awakened a wildness he'd forgotten - not just awakened, encouraged. She rooted it out, with tongue and tooth, urged him on in feral growls, until finally they moved together, creatures of sensate abandon, seeking release, body straining into body. They caught one another's gaze and it became a sort of anchor. Neither could look away. His face was wet, but he couldn't be bothered to care - her eyes were brimming as well. Eyes that squeezed shut suddenly, spilling tears from their corners. Her body stiffened, constricted around him, until he let himself over to shaking instinct, to her sex wringing his release from him. It was undulating, a seismic pulse, white hot, blinding. Slumping against her, he buried his face in her skin.

"God, Anna," he said, trying to catch his breath, and pretend his voice hadn't just broken as he whispered her name. Weak, clumsy, he fumbled to push off of her, which only served to tighten her hold on him.

"Where'r'you off to?" she murmured, barely audible. "Stay."

"Aren't I hurting you?" he asked.

"Only in the loveliest of ways," she said. "Come here."

Humming, she pulled him tighter, accepting the weight of him, her muscles strong, then languid. He felt her movements, her words, even her heart, acutely, deliciously. And for the first time in a long time, pure, cool relief lapped over him like fresh water. He grinned like a fool, laughing and wiped first her tears, then his own. Watchful and silent, calming her own breathing, she accepted his grateful pecks when he offered them, her smile genuine, as languid as her limbs.

"It was alright then?" he asked, rather smug about just how hard and long she'd rippled around him.

"Cheeky beggar!" She swatted his arse, and gasped as he moved within her. "Yes. It was alright. I told you already, you're lovely."

"What was that about not usually being able to..."

She swatted him again and chuckled. "I'll never hear the end of that will I? Feeling pleased with ourselves, are we? Not too puffed up?"

He raised his eyebrows at her, his confidence burgeoning, and trailed two fingertips along the inside of her palm, inducing a full-bodied tremor.

"Right, yeah," he said. "I'm rubbish at this. Guess I'll just go back to being a woodworking monk at the Abbey."

She swatted him again, bubbled over with sated laughter.

Laughing with her felt like nourishment, full, sweet, like fresh-turned soil, without barbs or thorns, not soured by festering wounds or salt. Not yet, he prayed. Not ever.

He had to lay down, his good leg was shaking. Slowly, he straightened, stepping away from her. She juddered and held her knees up to her chest for a moment, crossing her ankles. Then she uncurled her limbs, and gracelessly rolled and scooted properly onto the bed, leaving plenty of room for him. Something low in his chest ached when she pulled a crocheted blanket around her waist and patted the mattress. Nude, makeup and hair hopelessly mussed, posture an undisguised invitation, he'd never witnessed a more perfect sight. Settling next to her, he reached out, reverent in the way he brushed his open hand up her body, from navel to neck, finally tucking her hair behind the shell of her ear. "You brilliant, beautiful woman, what could you possibly see in me?"

Anna's mouth quirked. She touched his eyebrows, his laugh lines, fanned her fingers across his jowls, traced over his lower lip with her thumbs.

"You may not have been born a lord," she said, quiet yet clear, like a bird. "But you are a true gentleman, John Bates, and I never knew a finer one."

Her words made him smile.

"Is that so?" he asked.

"It is," she answered and kissed him as though that was all she needed to prove her point.


End file.
